


D. S. al Fine

by schweet_heart



Series: Good Omens fic [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Coda, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: There's really nothing ineffable about it. It's just love, plain and simple.





	D. S. al Fine

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly wasn't expecting to love this show quite as much as I do, but apparently this is my life now.

 

“Angel,” Crowley began.

 

Aziraphale did not immediately look up; he was inspecting the spine of one of his newly purchased first editions, with the sort of minutely loving diligence that sometimes got on Crowley’s nerves—at least when it was directed at anyone other than himself.

 

He tried again.

 

“ _Aziraphale._ ”

 

This time, the angel went so far as to raise his head, his unfocused eyes blinking bemusedly in Crowley’s direction. “Yes, my dear?”

 

Really, talking to a demon in that tone of voice shouldn’t be _allowed_.

 

“Do you ever wonder,” Crowley said, when he had sufficiently terrorised his vocal cords into resuming their traditional function, “what might have happened if we hadn’t…you know. Fixed it?”

 

“Fixed it?” Aziraphale echoed, blinking some more. Then the penny dropped and he said, “Oh! _Fixed it_. Well, yes, of course I wonder what it would have been like. Although I must say,” this with a sly little sideways smile that Crowley was _sure_ he must have picked up from him, “you painted a rather vivid picture, dear boy. Celestial harmonies and what not. Better that we avoided all that nonsense, don’t you think?”

 

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Crowley agreed, because that had never been in question. “Although I still don’t see how it is you can be so certain that your side would have won.”

 

“Good always triumphs in the end,” Aziraphale said dismissively, which was a complete cop-out and he knew it. Crowley didn’t pursue it, though. He was too busy thinking of a world in which there was none of— _this_ ; no bookshop, no little plants (which always did better under Aziraphale’s care, no matter what tricks Crowley employed to get them to behave—sometimes being… _friends_ with an angel was extremely exasperating), no lunch at the Ritz. No Ritz at all, for that matter.

 

No Aziraphale, either, which is what it all really came down to.

 

“I guess I just assumed that you would be…I don’t know, doing something to celebrate. Having escaped from the eternal torment—I mean, sorry, bliss and angelic mellifluence of _The Sound of Music_ for the time being.”

 

This time, Aziraphale went so far as to remove his glasses—which he didn’t really need, anyway; angelic beings couldn’t help but have perfect vision, by definition—and fixed Crowley with a look which said he was not only missing something obvious, but also that his hinting had not gone as unnoticed as he’d hoped.

 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, quite gently, “I _am_ celebrating. Or did you imagine that there was anywhere I would rather be than here with you?”

 

Crowley did not blush—demons didn’t have the capillaries for it—but he did mumble a little bashfully and look down at his feet, which demons _also_ didn’t do, if they could help it. Fortunately, Aziraphale couldn’t tell exactly where his eyes were directed because of the glasses. Unfortunately, Aziraphale could guess very well.

 

“Now, now, Crawley,” he said, forgetting, as he sometimes did, that several hundred years had passed since Crowley had gone by that name. “Modesty doesn’t become you. You are a demon after all.”

 

He patted Crowley’s shoulder as he passed, no doubt heading out to make some more cocoa, and Crowley slid down in his seat, letting out a whine that was not really a whine and directing his gaze upwards with a long-suffering expression.

 

“There’s really nothing ineffable about this,” he said to the ceiling. “It’s just basic chemistry. It’s not even particularly interesting chemistry, when you get right down to it. _Two households, both alike in dignity_? It’s not Verona, but you have to admit, Shakespeare’s said most of what there is to say on the subject already.”

 

The ceiling, of course, remained silent, as ceilings are wont to do.

 

“I could make it go away with a snap of my fingers,” Crowley insisted, snapping said fingers just to demonstrate. “Just like that, poof. No more—whatever this is. Chemistry. _Fee_ lings. I could definitely have gone to Alpha Centauri and never looked back.”

 

The ceiling continued to say nothing at all, although for a ceiling it did a remarkable impression of rampant scepticism. Crowley sighed.

 

“Don’t forget the biscuits!” he called, getting up to follow Aziraphale out into the kitchen. “You know you always have to make two trips. And save some of the jammy ones for me, this time!”

 

They had a not-quite-the-end-of-the-world to celebrate, after all. They might as well do it in style.

 


End file.
